


Paroxysm

by Nekositting



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Disturbing Themes, Extended Metaphors, F/M, POV Third Person Limited, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:09:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24021109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekositting/pseuds/Nekositting
Summary: He was still an inch beneath her skin.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 25
Kudos: 104





	Paroxysm

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you fundamental-blue for betaing <3

The war was over.

After the anti-climatic fall of Voldemort’s corpse at the centre of the crowd, the sudden drop of the Deatheaters’ wills to fight back, and the surge of morale that spread throughout the resistance’s numbers: it was evident enough that they were the victors.

They had won.

_And yet–_

Victory did not taste sweet.

It was a bitter, acrid tang in the back of Hermione’s mouth. With each inhale, it became harder and harder for her to swallow it all down. She didn’t have any other recourse.

They had won, but it had come at a price.

She struggled to stop her shoulders from trembling, her insides from liquefying into nothing. She didn’t want to spoil the mood.

Everyone was cheering.

Everyone was embracing.

Hermione tried to muster the same elation, the same desire to shout into the skies with triumph. She tried to unshackle her stiff legs, to set off into a run and clutch at all the friends that managed to survive to the very end.

She couldn’t.

_Not when George had lost his second half._

_Not when Molly had lost a son._

That wasn’t a win.

Children pit against adults, forced to grow up too fast to fight against a totalitarian regime bent on genocide, was not success.

Their lives would never be the same.

Just because the monster had been defeated did not mean that this all was over.

It wasn’t so simple.

Monsters didn’t only dwell in the world of the living.

_And yet–_

There were still smiles, sobs of joy and sighs of relief.

_And yet–_

They all still acted as if their hearts, their families, and their innocence had not been ripped asunder.

_And yet–_

Harry and Ron still took hold of her cold hands as if the world wasn’t still in shambles.

_As if–_

She didn’t understand.

_How could they forget what they’d lost?_

_How could they forget their encounter with_ him _?_

She couldn’t be the only one that remembered, that still–

_Don’t think about it._

But it was too late.

He always managed to break through, to appear when he was least wanted.

It started as a whisper, an echo. That was always the first sign.

Hermione’s throat seized, muscles constricting like the coil of a restless garden snake.

Harry and Ron were talking to her now, vying for her attentions. Their tongues and lips were moving, but the words were lost. Hermione tried to listen, to make sense of what they were saying, but the murmuring had become too loud.

_Insistent._

It took no time at all for the world to narrow to only that sound, for the whispers to flow into something more discernible.

Hermione stopped breathing altogether, the sight of Harry and Ron’s unsuspecting faces like salt to an open wound.

 _Laughter_.

There was laughter ringing in her ears. It came from no direction, both nowhere and everywhere.

It didn’t stop.

He laughed, and laughed, and laughed until not even the thoughts in her own head made sense.

The world was fading in and out of focus, the corners of her vision darkening until not even Harry and Ron’s faces were within view.

Everything was unraveling.

Not even Voldemort’s deformed corpse was enough to stymie the fear cresting inside, the laughter lapping away at any relief she might have felt.

It didn’t let her breathe, let her _scream_.

It was like he was hanging around her throat again, his hands trailing across her chest before diving wrist deep into her ribcage.

_Please._

She wanted it to end, to stop.

It didn’t.

It wasn’t until Harry shook her by the shoulder, worried gaze trained on hers, that she managed to escape.

The world exploded into colour, his laughter evaporating into nothing. It was like the moment hadn’t happened, had never been.

Hermione knew better than to believe that. This wouldn’t be the last time.

He was still an inch beneath her skin.

* * *

His laughter came and went.

With each breath, it was a caress in the back of her mind.

A reminder of all those nights, of all those hours tossing and turning with honeyed promises burning in her psyche.

Hermione tried so hard to forget them, to move on, but the past, even now, refused to remain buried.

Every time she closed her eyes, she was back in that tent with his locket scalding her from the inside out.

She knew that, realistically, he hadn’t burned her at all.

There were no scars, no marks.

But her soul, her soul had been inflamed.

Second by second, night by night, the locket had been sanding down her defences.

At first, she hadn’t felt the needle-like precision of his touch.

It had been slow and deliberate.

It was how she imagined a tradesman carved fine detailing into a wood figurine, nothing but care and dedication for his craft.

The human soul was Tom’s medium of choice.

Hermione’s soul had barely survived that encounter. The scar her soul bore was testament to that.

It ached every day.

_Once you looked into the abyss, however unwillingly, you can never unsee what you have unveiled._

Tom had shown her that and more.

Still, she tried to move on.

Still, she tried to pretend the darkness wasn’t now a part of her too.

* * *

Terror had rendered her both deaf and mute, unmoving and unfeeling.

She knew it was a Boggart.

She knew it wasn’t really _him_.

Still, she couldn’t avoid the surge of horror that consumed her. From her fingertips to the soles of her feet, she was frozen. Her blood was rushing to and back, from her mind to her heart, and still–

_I can’t._

“Look at me.”

She opened her eyes without meaning to, without realising the precise second she had closed them in the first place.

Tom Riddle was standing at the centre of the room, the worn furniture laden with cobwebs in the room adding to his presence.

Hermione tried to swallow, but she couldn’t through the scream trapped in her throat.

He looked just as he had when she’d last seen him in her dreams.

Dark, rich hair that barely grazed the tips of his ears; smooth and pale skin yet to be drained entirely of humanity; and dark eyes that could unveil even the most hidden secret: He was a vision.

“That’s a good girl.”

She opened her mouth to say something.

 _You’re not real_ , stood at the tip of her tongue.

 _Riddikulus_ , was at the edge of her throat.

Yet, the words refused to come. She couldn’t bring herself to speak when her fingers trembled, as if the world’s very foundations had been unmoored.

She didn’t want them to see. If she yelled, someone could rush in and–

_Please._

“The offer is still open, if you so choose.”

Hermione shook her head, covering up her ears in the hopes that his words couldn’t breach through.

It was a stupid hope.

“I know how much you yearn for it. Only _I_ can give that to you.”

His voice was loud and clear. It was the same baritone, the same intonation as those words spoken to her in her sleep.

 _“Belonging_.”

“Stop it!”

It wasn’t true. It was all a lie.

_And yet–_

“Even after winning this war, you’re still not welcome.”

His words ripped her open.

Even as a Boggart, Tom still managed to wound her worse than any blow ever could.

“You are still the outsider. Nothing has changed, and it never will if you allow yourself to live in that fanciful little world you’ve made up in your own head.”

“No.”

Her words fell on deaf ears.

“No?” There was humour in his voice now, something pitying and mocking that set her teeth on edge. “Where are your friends now? Nowhere to be found. Where are those laws you’ve been trying to pass? Nonexistent. Everything is exactly as it has always been, Granger.”

 _Granger_.

In the locket, it had always been Hermione.

_Granger._

In her dreams, it had always been a pet name.

_Granger._

It was a near-perfect copy, but it would never be _him_.

“ _Riddikulus_.”

The spell took hold in seconds. Tom had vanished like he had never been, replaced with the slackened face of the monstrous creature that had died in the Hogwarts courtyard. It should have disturbed her that her only source of comfort was his disfigured corpse, but it was all she had to hold onto.

Red eyes dulled with decay, skin turned waxen and frail, and a twisted lipless mouth trapped between surprise and fear: Hermione relished in it.

With each second to memorialise this appearance, her heart steadied. Her insides twisted less and less. Her fear dissipated.

It was child’s play to capture the Boggart after that.

The nightmares that would follow this encounter, however, would not be.

She knew it was coming.

The vision of Voldemort’s corpse could only do so much.

* * *

She should have said no.

When they had asked her to take the Mirror of Erised and move it into a brand new building in the castle, she should have declined right then.

Her skills were better utilised elsewhere.

After a year of grueling work in her seventh year, she was well on her way to finding a place for herself in both political and academic pursuits. Imparting her wisdom onto others while striving for change was good work.

Moving a mirror from one place to another was lacklustre at best, but she hadn’t said no.

_Blast it, she hadn’t said no._

Now, she wished she had.

From the moment she entered the empty room, she had sensed the mirror standing at its centre. The white sheet obscured the mirror from view, but its power still touched her.

It was dark and inviting, crooning to her without words. It _wanted_ her to unveil it, for her to look deep into the glass and expose her deepest desires.

It was unbearable.

Hermione stepped deeper into the room, her fingers taking a firm hold of her wand.

If she had believed the mirror had been oppressive before, now it was excruciating.

With each step she took, the mirror grew more insistent in its calls. There were no words, no whispers, but that magic–

Hermione couldn’t explain it if she tried.

It was crushing, like the walls were closing in from all sides.

Hermione stopped a meter away, unwilling to come any closer than she had. She didn’t need to touch it to move it. With her own magic, she could lift it and transport the thing.

She wouldn’t even need to look at it to make it follow after her.

It was simple and easy enough.

 _Except, you want to look_ , a voice murmured in the back of her head.

Hermione stiffened, her fingers biting so hard into her wand that it ached. She couldn’t quite place where she had heard it before, but it was familiar. It made her insides clench in a way they hadn’t in a long time.

_Don’t you, Hermione? Don’t you want to know what it is that you most desire?_

Hermione tried to swallow, but it was like there was a lump in her throat. It threatened to choke her, this feeling now catching at the base of her throat.

It tasted like terror.

_Go on, Hermione. Remove the cover._

Hermione shut her eyes, the sight of the mirror making her stomach heave. She was going to be violently ill, could sense it with each churn in her stomach.

_Look at me, Hermione._

She bit her lip hard enough to hurt, to cut along the inside seam of her mouth. She could taste the bitter iron with each hard swallow. Still, the pain wasn’t enough.

The temptation was there.

The voice was unrelenting.

_Look at me, my little lion. You’re positively shaking._

Her last bit of resistance crumbled.

She snatched the cloth with an iron-tight grip and wrenched it away.

Instantly, the voices fell silent.

The mirror’s glass was dark, almost black. It was an ocean of nothingness, and she stood at its centre.

She looked as she had that morning before she’d left for work: dress robes, a black knee-length skirt, and a navy-blue blouse. It was what she expected to see. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it, except–

Her face was frozen into a look of terror, her cheeks entirely drained of colour. Her fingers were bone white in their grip around her wand, and her eyes were wide and dewey with unshed tears. Her mouth was parted, the sound of her own shaky breaths too loud in the thick silence of the room.

Hermione shut her eyes, prepared to cover the mirror again when she stopped dead.

A voice, familiar and terrifying, broke the silence.

Hermione couldn’t breathe, her hands itching press against her neck in search of–

“Open your eyes.”

Every cell in her body screamed for her to resist and fight, but there was no resisting. She couldn’t breathe; there was something around her throat, growing tighter and tighter with each passing second.

“Go on, love.”

She opened her eyes.

Tom Riddle stood in the mirror, his body hanging over hers like a shadow. His hair, his skin, and his face were the same.

Hermione wanted to look away, to push away from the mirror, but her legs were glued to the ground. Her face was frozen into a look of abject horror.

_This is a nightmare. This couldn’t be real. He couldn’t possibly be here._

His hands fell on her shoulders in the mirror, the fingertips trailing along the seam. Hermione shivered as if she could feel his heat bleed through the fabric of her shirt, as if he were there standing behind her.

A rational part of her knew that he wasn’t. He couldn’t be standing behind her. None of this could be real, and yet, Hermione couldn’t help the tremor that raced up her spine when his lips curved into a smile.

It was sharp along its edges. No blade could cut as deep as the words that escaped that mouth.

“It’s been a long time, _Hermione.”_

His fingers trailed higher, curving over her throat to cradle her neck between his hands. The sight only made her more ill, her stomach churning.

The symbolism of it was not lost on her.

“You’ve grown so much.”

His eyes speared through her, stripping her bare. She wanted nothing more than to look away, but she had long since abandoned that hope.

She was already caught in his web.

“Hello, Tom.”


End file.
